


neon cathedrals

by esstiel



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cullrian Prompt Saturday, M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-09 00:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4327425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esstiel/pseuds/esstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Cullen Prompt Saturday: Arranged Marriage AU. Cullen and Dorian were betrothed ever since they were kids but they've never met. Cue them meeting, not knowing who the other is, and especially before their families officially introduce them to each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	neon cathedrals

**Author's Note:**

> Divergences: Cullen is not a templar, Dorian never left Tevinter because his father never tried to change him, the situations of Inquisition never happened, really.

Dorian stares into the bottom of his tankard as he swirls the dregs, stares as if the last drops of the swill they’ve taken to calling ale here will tell him the future, give him a glimpse at the coming years.

But Dorian is no scryer, and all the cup offers him is the desire to ask for a refill.

He’s on his eighth - maybe it’s the ninth, he isn’t exactly keeping count at this point - and he’s genuinely surprised the barkeep is still serving him. Perhaps it’s because he’s sitting at the actual bar this time instead of taking up a table, or perhaps it’s the fact that he walked in looking like everyone he’s ever loved died in a horrible bandit attack. Either way, so long as the libations keep coming, he’ll take whatever pity the barkeep seems to have for him. Maker knows it’s more pity than the rest of the world seems to have, more than his parents have.

The sigh Dorian heaves completely deflates him and he shoves his tankard towards the barkeeper, who refills it without comment. Andraste bless the man.

He should go home. The hour is late enough that even the last of the drunkards are stumbling out the door, but he doesn’t trust his legs enough to stand. If he feels inebriated now, then once he’s on his feet he’ll be an absolute disaster. No, better to wait for one of his father’s servants to come fetch him and help carry him home, just like every other time he’s disappeared in the middle of the night. At least this time Dorian won’t have to worry about being dragged out of a brothel. The morning after conversations are always worse after that.

Dorian’s thoughts starts to wander toward what it is that’s waiting at home for him, just what it is that sent him fleeing like a fawn before a mountain lion - _he’s waiting there for me_ \- and then his mind skitters away from the flame of that statement, the pain and confusion.

Arranged marriages don’t seem all that bad when the date is far off in the distance, barely a twinkle on the horizon. It gave him the freedom to overindulge to his heart’s content, to dally and flirt with no repercussions. And it’s not the fear of that coming to an end that makes his heart clench and stomach twist; it’s the thought of this man he’s never met seeing him for who he is and finding him to be less than.

But what does it matter what this Commander Rutherford thinks of him? Their marriage is for nothing more than an alliance, the first goodwill gesture between Ferelden and Tevinter in nigh a century. Dorian could be a hideous incompetent waste of space and it wouldn’t matter a bit so long as his last name was Pavus and he was capable of taking his vows.

Maker, he came here to escape and drown in cheap alcohol, not to drown himself in his miseries and fears.

Dorian washes down that bitter thought with a few mouthfuls of bitter ale.

Just another cog in the machinations of national politics.

If Dorian were the praying sort, he would offer up a prayer to the Maker, but he can’t form the words to say in his mind as the drink finally takes hold of his mental functions. He can feel the world spinning underneath him; he wonders if it’ll spin fast enough to fling him off the planet and into the sun. His snort of amusement is undignified enough to be embarrassing.

The tavern door swings open, cool night air flowing in and making Dorian shiver. The days in Tevinter may be hot, but the nights still hold enough chill to require a cloak. Dorian can’t help but wonder who would be _entering_ the tavern at such an hour instead of stumbling out, and lifts his head out of his drink enough to look. He has to blink a few times to get his eyes to focus properly, but eventually the newcomer swims into view. All he catches is blonde hair - _like honey_ \- before the world tilts and he finds himself falling from his stool.

There are arms there to catch him, corded muscles tightening around his shoulders to cushion his fall. Dorian has something witty to say about that but he can’t grasp the words; they slip through his fingers like oiled cloth and he has no idea what ends up tumbling from his lips. Whatever it is that he says gets a reply, but he doesn’t have a clue what the person is saying. All he hears is buzzing, and he feels the person’s words vibrating through his chest more than anything else. His eyes flutter as he tries to get them to focus again but all he can see is a blur of colors spinning above his head and he closes them with a groan.

The person - _the man_ , his brain supplies sloppily after finally deciphering the pitch of his voice - says something else and suddenly Dorian is off the floor and - is this person carrying him? He struggles, or tries to, but it amounts to little more than a weak flail of his legs. Where is he being taken? Who is this person? The man is speaking again but Maker help him he can’t keep his fucking mind focused enough to understand what he’s saying.

Dorian’s skin breaks out into gooseflesh as the cold night air hits him, and it’s almost enough to drag him back into coherency, but the gentle rocking as he’s carried bridal style to wherever it is he’s being taken to is enough to lull him into inevitable unconsciousness.

 

 

Dorian wakes in his rooms. He knows it’s his rooms because he can feel the weight of his mother’s stare as she attempts to bore a hole through his skull. Perhaps she should _actually_ bore a hole into his head, if only to relieve the painful pressure of yet another hangover. One would think after all the drinking he’s done he would be immune to the unsavory repercussions and yet here he lays with cotton mouth and aching joints and a head that feels twice its size.

“I would yell at you if I thought it would do any good,” she says and at least she has enough compassion to pitch her voice low, though it’s still loud enough to send a jolt of pain through his brain.

With a groan he sits up, taking the healing potion she has ready for him and downing it in one swig. The effects are immediate, but the taste is enough to make him gag and for a moment he worries he’ll vomit all over his bedsheets. Once he has his stomach under control he sighs. His mother’s gaze is heavy on his shoulders but he can’t find it in himself to meet her eyes. She’s disappointed in him - _again_ \- and has every right to be.

Though he wonders how he got home this time. He doesn’t remember who it was that fetched him from the lower district, but he knows it isn’t someone he recognized. “How did I get-” the question dies on his lips as his mother’s hands tighten into fists at her side.

Dorian swallows.

After an uncomfortable pause, his mother speaks. “You have thirty minutes to make yourself presentable. I will be escorting you to the conservatory. You will not. Slip. Away.”

The words are daggers stabbing into Dorian’s gut and he nods silently, not trusting his voice as a lump forms in his throat. She leaves without another word, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Dorian’s skin itches in the silence of a door that should have been slammed, and he shivers before getting out of bed and beginning his morning rituals. He washes his face and upper body in the washbasin left for him. The water is cold but he makes no effort to heat it. He doesn’t deserve warm water, and suffers it in silence as he sloughs off the evidence of his escapades. Next comes cleaning up the lines of his mustache, shaving away the stubble growing in on his cheeks, followed by dabbing himself with his usual scented oils and dressing in the outfit he was meant to wear yesterday.

It’s black and gold, the colors of his house, and beautiful in its own right, with twisting embroidery and looping chains. It feels like funeral garb.

Dorian stares at his reflection in his mirror. He looks regal, every bit the first born son of the Pavus line.

He feels cheap. So easily given away.

His mother is waiting outside the door just as she said she would be, and hooks her arm with his. Her grip is tight, the smile on her face strained, but it’s all about pretenses and he slips into his public role like it’s a second skin.

The walk down to the conservatory is quiet, the only thing between mother and son the clicking of their shoes against the marble floors. Dorian maintains his blank face by sheer will alone as terror begins to creep up his spine, oozes through his veins with each step. His magic writhes within him, aching to be released as the emotion builds within him. Something about the look on his face must betray his inner turmoil, though it’s more likely the smell of petrichor in the dry summer air as his mana pushes against his skin, begging to be utilized.

His mother is suddenly upon him, hands cupping his face as she stares up into his eyes. In her eyes he sees a reflection of his own terror, but he voice is soothing as she whispers to him: “It will be alright. You will be fine.” Though the words do help ease his terror into something more manageable, he can’t help but wonder if she’s saying the words for him for for herself.

They continue on their way soon after that, the moment between them pushed aside in the face of duty. Sooner than he’d like they stand at the entrance of the conservatory, mid-morning sun shining through the stained glass windows.

For a brief moment they face that door together. Dorian’s hands tremble; he curls them into fists.

But the moment passes and his mother is opening the door and leading him into the room. His eyes dance about the room, looking for the man he is to be given away to, and too late realizes his mother is no longer hooked onto his arm. When he turns he finds the space behind him empty, the door shut.

So this is to be his punishment for fleeing yesterday. Thrown to the Ferelden doglord like a scrap of meat. Dorian wants to be mad but can’t find the energy to bother as fear and anger alike drain from him and the inevitability of this moment crashes home. He wouldn’t doubt that the door is sealed behind him, and his desire to flee is not strong enough for him to resort to using magic to blast his way out.

The hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck stand and _someone’s watching him_ and he whips his head around to find those eyes and -

_hair like spun gold, glinting in the sunlight, leaving a halo around his head, ochre eyes wide as they stare at him, take in his form, caress his skin like the hands of a lover as concern and apprehension war for dominance on his face_

\- he recognizes that face. It swims up from his memories of last night, what few he has, and that face that stares at him from across the room is the same face that stared down at him after he fell from his stool.

The man - no, Dorian needs to call him by name. _Cullen Rutherford_ stares at him with wide eyes, wets his lips. “Are you feeling better?” he asks, and Dorian wants to groan because of _course_ he would bring up last night instead of having enough tact to pretend it didn’t happen. But Dorian should know better than to expect any sort of common sense from a Southerner, and forces a smile onto his face.

“Quite better, yes, thank you.”

An awkward silence stretches between them. Cullen rubs at the back of his neck and glances away before looking back at Dorian, gaze anxious and just a little scared. It strikes Dorian then that perhaps Cullen is as afraid as he is of what’s to come for them, and the realization loosens some of the tension in his body.

“Did you travel well?” Dorian asks as he begins a circuit around the room, fingers brushing against the furniture he passes.

“Well enough,” Cullen answers, eyes following Dorian as he walks. “I was told of the heat here but I hadn’t expected it to be so, ah… _hot_.” He shrugs and rubs at his neck again, ears reddening with embarrassment.

Ah, now that Dorian is marginally closer he can see the sheen of sweat coating Cullen’s skin, what skin that’s showing in his traditional Tevinter outfit. Worn to appease, to be sure, and Dorian appreciates the gesture, small as it is. “Certainly it isn’t _that_ bad.”

“You’ve had the advantage of living here to grow used to it,” Cullen notes and Dorian concedes the point with a tip of his head in Cullen’s direction.

“You will be back to your snowy southern climates soon enough.” He purposely says ‘you’ instead of ‘we’, and the way Cullen shifts his shoulders shows that he noticed his choice of words.

Dorian ends his walk of the room by sitting in one of the chairs scattered about the room, sinking into the blush cushions. He crosses one leg over the other and leans back, affecting the posture of a man confident in himself; he hides the tremor of his hands by clasping them together in his lap.

Cullen follows Dorian’s example and takes a chair across from him, leaning forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. They watch each other for a long, tense moment before Cullen sighs and lets his head fall. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

Dorian’s breath catches in his throat as his eyes begin to burn. He swallows down the sob that so desperately wants to rip free from his throat and blinks quickly. The smile he forces onto his face is a grim shadow of what it could be. “Whatever for?”

 

 

The ceremony that evening is quick and to the point, and before the sun’s even set properly they’re on the road to Ferelden.

Dorian does not cry.

 

 

Ferelden is cold. It is cold, it is muddy, it smells like dogs and squalor, and Dorian wants out. But there’s no way out, no freedom from a marriage now recognized in two nations, so he hides in his rooms in the Denerim palace, locks himself away from servant and visitor alike. The stone surrounding him seem to suck the heat out of his rooms and he expends his mana keeping the room warm at all hours. He avoids eating as much as possible, no matter how often the servants knock at the door offering food; instead he pours all of his energy into the small book collection he brought from home. Unable to escape physically, he escapes mentally, letting himself be dragged away to worlds where none of his problems exist.

 

 

At no point does Cullen visit his rooms to consummate their marriage. These are _Dorian’s_ rooms, specifically - Cullen has his own further down the hall, apparently. Truth be told, Dorian had expected Cullen to come and force himself upon him, take what was rightfully his, et cetera. The lack thereof leaves him feeling off balance and it’s this that finally pulls him from his self-imposed exile.

Dorian wanders the halls at night, a wraith in the black and gold of home that startles servants as he explores. The bitter cold cuts through him like a knife, flaying him to the bone, but he weathers it with fur lined cloaks that had been in his rooms upon arrival. Though there are fires and braziers at intervals in the halls, they do little more than offer illumination, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls.

This place is big. Bigger than he’d thought it was upon arrival, though he wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings then so he’s not surprised the sheer size of the Denerim palace went unnoticed. It takes him weeks to explore the halls and side rooms, to learn the best ways to get to the kitchens and the various bathing rooms, which stairways lead where, and he hasn’t even begun to venture into the basements or storerooms. The cold musty air that wafts up the stairs leading under the palace makes his nose wrinkle and sends shivers down his spine; he can sense the old magic in the air there, can taste the faint copper of it in the back of his throat. A place best explored with another person, lest he stumble upon a millennia old ward and get himself trapped down there.

It’s on one of these nightly excursions that Dorian passes the door to Cullen’s quarters and finds it open, warmth and light spilling out into the hallway. He pauses at the doorway, caught between two decisions. Does he simply slink past the room, or does he peer inside? Curiosity wins out and he pulls his cloak tighter around his neck as he peeks around the corner into Cullen’s room.

The room is sparsely decorated, militaristic in its design, which makes sense seeing as Cullen is the Commander of the Ferelden armies. The bed, furniture, it is all minimalist in design, clean lines with no gilding or adornment. It gives Dorian an idea of the man who stays here. Simple, without preamble. In any other situation Dorian would find such a person a welcome respite from the double talk and veiled meanings he’s become accustomed to, but here and now it fills him with disdain.

Dorian’s eyes move through the room until they fall upon the Commander.

Cullen stands at a small desk near the back of the room, leaning over it with fists pressed into the wood as he looks at what seems to be a map spread across the desktop. He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth as he contemplates, pulling tight on the scar on his lip. It cants his lips slightly, and it could almost be called a smirk if it had been done on purpose.

His hair is mussed, and as he lifts a hand to rake fingers through it, Dorian can see why. And he’s wearing that horrific cloak of his, the one with the indiscernible dead animal around the collar. Cullen had donned it once they crossed into Ferelden proper - Dorian hated it then and he hates it now, though a rational part of him knows that Cullen doesn’t wear it for the fashion, but for the warmth. He hates it even so.

Even now Dorian’s eyes end up looking at Cullen’s hair more than anything else. It’s the first thing Dorian noticed about the man what seems like years ago, and it’s still the thing that grabs his attention. In a different place, in a different world, Dorian would have waxed poetic about the color of Cullen’s hair, about the way it curls when it’s humid into gentle waves of amber. Despite the circumstances, Dorian still wonders what it would be like to touch that hair, to let the strands run between his fingers, to sink his hands -

Cullen looks up then and jerks in surprise when their eyes meet. Eyes wide, Cullen pushes off of the desk. “Dorian!” He moves to come around the desk before stopping himself, a hand coming to the back of his neck as he glances away.

Dorian is frozen though, lips slightly parted. Something about the look in Cullen’s eyes before he gave way to surprise gives him pause. There was warmth there, an eagerness, something heady that makes him swallow before he regains the ability to speak. “Up late, I see,” he comments blandly, stepping further into the doorframe. He wants to flee, to scurry back to the safety of his rooms but he can no longer avoid the Commander, can no longer avoid his husband.

 _Husband_. He tests the word in his head, feels it out. It’s not as bad as he thought it would be.

Cullen glances at the candle on his desk, notched to mark the time as it burns. “Later than I’d planned, yes. But there is always work to be done.” The words are said with a wry twist of his lips and Dorian’s twitch in response.

“I shall leave you to your work then,” Dorian says as he begins to turn for the door, and Cullen is stepping forward again, hand outreaching.

“No!” He clears his throat, a flush rising to his pale southern cheeks. “No, stay a while. I would enjoy a bit of company.” The flush deepens. “If you’re alright with that.”

And, Maker, he looks so eager, so fucking _hopeful_ that it takes more willpower than it should for Dorian to shake his head; the disappointment that flicks across Cullen’s face nearly does him in. “Perhaps another time, Commander.”

 

 

This… whatever it is between them continues for weeks. Dorian pausing at Cullen’s room on his nightly walks, Cullen staying up far later than necessary under the pretenses of work, and Dorian declining Cullen’s invitation to stay. But one of those nights Dorian spots a chessboard on Cullen’s desk, a game half finished, and quirks a brow.

“You play?” he asks, and nods towards the board when Cullen’s brows knit in confusion.

“Yes, though not as often as I would like.” Cullen looks at him, considering. “Would you like to play a game before you go?”

Dorian can’t help the smirk that curls his lips. “You will not find an easy opponent in me, I warn you,” he says as he steps further into the room; the grin that blooms on Cullen’s face as he realizes that Dorian is not turning him down yet again is bright enough to rival the sun, and it pulls Dorian further into the room like moth to a flame.

They play once a week, at first, then twice, then soon Dorian spends more time in Cullen’s quarters than he does in his own. Their games go from a simple chess match to an excuse to talk to each other.

It isn’t long before they lose the pretense of playing chess and simply seek each others company. Dorian learns much about the man he is wed to: that he has a large, happy family back in some town called Honnleath, that his favorite color is grey (admitted with a blush while looking at Dorian’s eyes), that he suffers from crippling migraines which is what keeps him up most nights, that he has no ‘royal’ blood to speak of and came to his position through hard work and being in the right place at the right time.

In turn Dorian tells Cullen things about himself, his favorite foods, his favorite books and authors, the magic he favors and studies, and he even goes so far as to show off a few tricks for the Commander, who watches the displays of power and finesse with a mixture of awe and unease.

Dorian begins to walk the palace in the daytime with Cullen in tow; the whispers that follow in his wake make his skin crawl but Cullen’s hard glare does much to protect him from the worst of the gossip. Cullen guides him through the estate, showing him places he’s already discovered but he’s too amused by Cullen’s enthusiasm to tell him so, and when they part Cullen’s soft smile makes Dorian’s stomach flip as he touches his forearm with a murmured, “Until later.”

This isn’t what he expected, not in the least. Dorian can’t put words to what he _had_ expected, but he knows this isn’t it. This softness, this careful dance, this gentle give and take that demands nothing but offers everything.

It consumes his thoughts - _Cullen_ consumes his thoughts. The ever present hope in his puppy dog eyes slowly but surely dismantles the wall Dorian erected around himself and for the first time in what seems like a lifetime Dorian doesn’t feel afraid of what’s to come.

Cullen is a good man, a kind man, and perhaps one day Dorian could come to love him.

The realization strikes him as the walk the garden, enjoying the first breath of spring. On a whim Dorian reaches across the distance between them and takes Cullen’s hand in his.

Cullen starts and his head whips down to their hands swinging between them before shifting their hands until their fingers are interlocked.

He looks at Dorian then, and belatedly Dorian amends his first thoughts of his husband. Back then Dorian thought that Cullen’s best feature was his hair, but in this moment he becomes acutely aware of Cullen’s eyes. Bright like the sun and lit with something Dorian can’t quite place, he allows himself to bask it their warmth.

It’s not _the_ beginning, but it’s _a_ beginning, and Dorian is interested to see how it ends.


End file.
